


Break A Leg

by Ajur



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2
Genre: Gen, Humour, LLF Comment Project, References to Macbeth, Spoilers, Xenoblade Fanworks Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 12:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14811197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ajur/pseuds/Ajur
Summary: Akhos would later question just why he thought it would be a good idea topersuadethe others to perform a play.





	Break A Leg

**Author's Note:**

> This is my gift for the Xenoblade Fanworks Exchange! It's a bit of an experimental format I did on a whim, feel free to let me know what you think of it.
> 
> Thanks to Lonetaku for helping with editing.

Act IV, scene I

The three witches circle the cauldron, whose bubbling contents spread a vile stench all around them. The fire crackling under it is the only source of light. It casts flickering shadows on what appears to be cave walls on one side; on the other, the light tapers off quickly, and the rest of the cavern is shrouded in darkness. 

One of the witches, a towering shape with long red hair, stops and turns to the cauldron. He holds out a truly gargantuan hand clutching something small and round, and then pauses, mouth hanging open, evidently thinking hard.

An awkward silence occurs, broken only by a longsuffering sigh, though it doesn't come from any of the witches. 

“Eye of newt and, uhh…“ With a splash, the object the witch has been holding drops into the cauldron. The witch then thrusts a hand into his pocket and digs around for a moment before blinking sheepishly. 

“I think I lost the toe of frog...“ 

The second witch, small and endowed with wings, raises a hand to her mouth and giggles. “You dumbass.“

“Both of you, shut up and keep going or I'll make you start over again.“ This isn't the third witch; it's a voice coming from beyond the darkness. 

“Fine, fine...“ The second witch sounds sullen, but goes quiet and allows the first to finish his monologue, albeit punctuated with the occasional laugh at his expense. 

The last ingredient falls into the cauldron. There's a moment of silence which falls just short of being tense and instead veers into the realm of boring, then two of the witches start speaking in unison.

“Double, double toil and trouble—“

“Hey, can I eat that?“

The third witch, who had not spoken previously, leers at the cauldron, a string of drool dripping from his mouth onto the ground. His long tail is swishing back and forth. 

A slapping sound can be heard from across the room, as if someone's palm has made contact with their face. When nobody answers, the third witch says, “I'll take that as a—“

“No, you can't eat it. Oh Father, you're impossible. Why can't you just stick to the script?“ It's the same voice that has come from the darkness before; evidently it's the director speaking. 

“Don't tell me you seriously expected them to.“ 

This second voice comes from the opposite side. It's tinged with amusement, the audible equivalent of a smirk.

“Did I give you your cue yet, Malos?“

The only response is a low chuckle. 

The three witches return to tossing various strange and unsettling ingredients into the cauldron, with only the occasional flub. Eventually they all step back (with a muffled “sorry“ when one bumps into another) and after a moment, the second witch speaks up again. 

“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. Open, l—“

From behind a rock situated at the edge of the stage, a tall man saunters in, a lush red cape fluttering behind him. The way he's tugging at it implies he doesn't feel comfortable wearing it, but he doesn't break stride over it as he walks up to the witches. 

The director starts to say something, but the cape-wearer cuts him off loudly and emphatically. “How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags! What is't you do?“

His voice carries through the entire room and effectively drowns out any objections. One of the witches opens her mouth as if to speak, but that too goes unheard as the man continues his monologue. 

“I conjure you, by that which you profess, howe'er you come to know it, answer me—“

“Why is it that the only one capable of speaking his lines properly is incapable of knowing when to say them?“ The director has finally managed to get a word in. The exasperation is evident in his voice. 

“Says the one interrupting me.“ The caped man crosses his arms. “If you're going to 'make actors out of us', as you put it, how about you actually let us act instead of butting in every five seconds?“

He waits for a moment, and when no further objection occurs moves on with the scene, occasionally even allowing the others to speak.

“Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn the power of man, for none of woman born shall harm—“

The cape wearer cocks his head. “You know, that doesn't really make sense. None of us here was _of a woman born_ aside from Mikhail, and he died a couple scenes ago.“

“I told you to _pretend to be human_ , Malos! I told you this less than an hour ago!“

“He's got a point though,“ the second witch says. “Couldn't you have picked a better play?“

“A better play? _A better play?_ Do you even know whose literary achievements you're mocking? This is one of the greatest plays known to mankind!“ 

“If you say so.“

“But fine, if you're placing such importance on Mikhail being dead, then why don't we go back and try that one again, hmm?“

A groan comes out of the background.

~

Act III, Scene 3

A blonde man stands in what appears to be a park, alone. Suddenly, he throws himself to the ground and lets out a thoroughly unconvincing scream. “Woe is me, for I'm dying, murdered by assassins most foul—“

“What did I tell you about improvising, Mikhail?“

The actor sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe give me something to work with then, like an actual murderer? How am I supposed to act like I'm dying without context?“

“If you need help dying, Mik, just say the word and I'll come up on stage and do it.“ This is someone who hasn't spoken up before; a woman, her tone flippant. 

“If only you would show this much enthusiasm about your actual role, dear Patroka. If only.“ 

“Why am I stuck with this lame-ass role anyway? Couldn't you have given me something cooler than killing myself out of guilt? Who does that?“ The woman's voice is thick with derision.

The director ignores her. “I was forced to cut roles, since there weren't enough of us. Your murderers were among them.“ 

“Why didn't you just ask Jin to play one of them?“

Nobody answers. The blonde actor scratches his head. “Yeah, nevermind, that was a stupid question. But this isn't working out.“ 

“Hah! You can't even die properly. What _can_ you do right?“

“Aw, Patroka, you don't mean that.“

The director's voice is tinged with despair. “Shut up, both of you.“

~

Act V, Scene 8

The stage is now covered in fake trees. A humanoid being stands in between, holding a tree in each of his four arms. Facing him is the caped man from the earlier scene, in his hands a sword that he swings back and forth with seemingly no effort at all. His face sports an impressive grimace. 

The four-armed one steps forward confidently and bellows, “I have no words: My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain than terms can give thee out!“

His opponent doesn't grace this with an answer. He rushes forward and dodges a tree swinging his way, then strikes a blow with his sword which is blocked by a second tree. A frown creeps into his face as a second, then a third strike is deflected. 

“Akhos, what's with this thing? It doesn't do shit!“

“That is the _point_. You're not _supposed_ to win.“

The battle continues with neither of them gaining the upper hand (though not for lack of trying). Dialogue flies back and forth, delivered enthusiastically.

“I bear a charmed life, which must not yield, to one of woman born,“ the sword-bearer yells. 

“Despair thy charm; and let the angel whom thou still hast served tell thee, Macduffio was from his mother's womb untimely ripp'd,“ his opponent replies. 

One of the trees finally shatters under the force of a powerful swing. Its wielder wastes no time in dropping it before continuing with the other three.

The caped man, however, doesn't let up either. Much as he seems dissatisfied with his weapon, he handles it adeptly to keep his opponent off himself. After the last line is uttered, their battle increases in intensity even more, with neither of them able to gain the upper hand. Blow after blow after blow is deflected, dodged or weathered through until finally—

“Will you two finish up already?“

—the director intervenes. 

Up on the stage, the caped man rolls his eyes, performs another swing or two and then abruptly stands still for a tree to whack him in the side. With a hearty _fuck_ he falls over and lies still. His 'murderer' launches into another monologue, voice full of pathos. 

“Hail, king! for so thou art: behold, where stands  
The usurper's cursed head: the time is free:  
I see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's pearl,  
That speak my salutation in their minds;  
Whose voices I desire aloud with mine:  
Hail, King of Scotland!“

“The hell is _Scotland_?“ 

“Open a history book sometime, sister of mine.“

~

Epilogue

“So, how'd we do?“ Malos sips his coffee. They've assembled in the Monoceros's kitchen after Akhos, who is currently sitting at the kitchen table with his hands covering his face, finally brought an end to rehearsals.

“You're all hopeless. Completely and utterly hopeless. You've exceeded my expectations on how badly you'd fail.“ 

“So it's just like I told you it would turn out.“

“Must you rub it in like this?“

“Yes.“ 

Akhos's only response is a muffled sigh. 

“ _I_ thought it was fun.“ Obrona floats into a chair next to him. “Aside from the part where Malos didn't let us speak. That was lame. Didn't think you'd get into it that much.“ 

“What can I say?“ Malos puts down his now empty mug. “You pick things up over time. Besides, I saw that old fart Williamio act his roles out all the time, back in Judicium.“ 

“ _You met him and didn't tell me?_ “ Akhos jumps up. His chair clatters to the ground behind him. “Do you even know what I would have given to talk to him?“

“Yeah, well, you're shit out of luck then, aren't you? Two hundred years too young. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll...“ 

Akhos moves to block the doorway. “Oh no you won't. Since you've put me through this ordeal—“

“You made _us_ do it.“

“ _Since you put me through this ordeal_ , the least you can do is make up for it by telling me everything you know.“ Akhos crosses his arms. Clearly he's not going to move out of the way. 

Patroka nudges Malos, perhaps a little harder than necessary. “Just say yes or he'll bitch at you until the end of time.“ 

“Give it a rest, will you? ...is what I'd say if I didn't know Patroka was right.“ Malos rolls his eyes. “Fine, I'll tell you if it makes you shut up. Satisfied?“

Akhos makes a sound that almost sounds like a squeal. Almost. “What kind of person was he? Did you ever talk to him about his thoughts about his plays? Is it true that—“

“Oi, one question at a time.“

Their voices fade as they walk away from the kitchen. When they're out of earshot, Mikhail leans back in his chair. “Don't tell him I said that or he'll never let me live it down, but that was kind of fun.“ 

Patroka snorts. “Yeah, it gave you a chance to show how much of a dumbass you are, of course you'd like it. If you tell him and he ropes us back into this nonsense, I'll make sure you die a real death next time.“ 

“Like I was going to say anything to him,“ Mikhail says. Then his eyes fall on Obrona, who's stifling a giggle while she floats towards the door. “Oh no, I know that look. Don't you dare.“ 

“Try and stop me!“ With that she's out of the door, flitting down the corridor at full speed. Mikhail and Patroka share a look, then Mikhail's chair goes flying and joins Akhos's on the ground as he leaps up and the two chase after her.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thanks for reading all the way to the end. There's something I'd like to address now that you're here. I have no way of knowing what exactly a reader is trying to communicate if they leave kudos without a comment. Different people leave them for different reasons, ranging from "I loved this" to "I give kudos to everything I finish" and everything in between, and it's impossible for me to tell where they fall on that spectrum. As a result, whenever I get kudos without comments, my reaction isn't "Hey, somebody liked my fic", but "I don't know what you mean by that". 
> 
> I really want to understand how people feel about my writing! So, if you're up for it, I'd greatly appreciate if you could leave a comment to clarify what exactly you meant. A short "I liked this" or "Please write more like this" or whatever else you left kudos for is more than enough, if you don't feel like leaving a long comment (though I certainly won't complain if you do write more than that!)
> 
> * * *
> 
> This story is part of [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites:  
> 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism [just please keep in mind that it's my choice whether to implement any of it—I've had negative experiences with people who expected me to do as they said no matter what and I'd rather not repeat those]
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta)
> 
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